


Edge of the World

by Vaecordia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Can be seen as critical of current events, Dark!America, Dark!Russia, Implied Violence, M/M, My attempts at poetry, implied war, mentions of nuclear weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-17 05:32:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10587462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaecordia/pseuds/Vaecordia
Summary: Alfred laughs. Ivan rolls his eyes. The whole world shudders.





	

_et c'est l'imperfection  
(and it's the imperfection)_

It's an unsettling sight.

All but two nations can see it clear as day, in front of them - and the two nations that don't, _are_ the sight.

The two countries sit leisurely in the conference room chairs. One of them lounging carelessly in his comfortable seat, the other with his straightened back lining the backrest. They seem to be talking, though none of them know what about. Their voices are low, and sometimes there is a nudge of the head, a pursing of lips, to indicate their reactions. A mindless scribble on a scrap of paper, a distraction, and the movement of hands with an explanation. It seems like such a normal conversation between two life-long friends.

And then, Alfred laughs. Ivan rolls his eyes. The world shudders.

* * *

_de ce que nous sommes  
(of what we are)_

It's a murmur, a barely audible whisper. Feliciano's voice shakes slightly. "But what if-" He's interrupted, but Lovino's voice trembles just as much.

"This isn't a matter of what if, it's a matter of what's going on between-"

He's interrupted by the door opening, and silence falls across the room. The five nations inside freeze at the sight of the stormy, violet gaze.

"Did I miss something?" His voice is too cheerful, and it's not friendly - it's a simplistic threat. A heartbeat of silence, and it's a battle for who has to answer the Russian's question. They all can feel the inquiry hanging above their heads.

"Er - no, you did not." There's a pause of hesitation, and Arthur knows he's fucked it up. He sees the tilt of the head and the hardening of the smile. "We were merely waiting for you. To begin the meeting." A pause, nothing moves, and then the other nods slowly with thinned lips.

Ivan doesn't make a single comment during the entire meeting.

* * *

_qui a fait de moi  
(that has made of me)_

They're met with a cold look. His voice cuts diamond.

"What's your point?"

There's a dead silence, weighing down upon the nations.

"Maybe - you've done enough?" Even despite the honeyed accent sweetening the words, Francis knows his words caused the bitterness glazing Alfred's eyes.

A frown edges his young face, his eyes turning to mock confusion. It's all fake anyway. He knows everything. "Done enough what?"

It's an audible gulp, but everyone pretends they don't hear it. "The Middle East is... sorting itself out...?"

And Alfred looks out the window for a moment, an eyebrow drawn up in amusement - it's as if he's a comedian, trying hard to keep a straight face. When he turns back, he's cold as the tundra.

"Once _you_ contribute in military operations to aid nations in conflict and _danger_ , I'll maybe take your opinion into account."

The threat of that same danger is embedded deep into the subtle softness of his voice, but it's clear as day to the nations present.

And they can't argue with it, they won't - none of them want to be considered a danger, or the next target of a military operation.

* * *

_ce que je suis aujourd'hui -  
(what i am today)_

Arthur can't bring the words out of his mouth, the photographs staring up at him too shocking. "Are those-?" He doesn't know how to finish the sentence, his green eyes scanning all the plans and pictures for a hint of a scam.

"As far as I know - yes, they are." Ludwig's voice is grave, that of someone standing at a funeral - not staring at an aerial picture of revolutionary nuclear arsenal, Cyrillic letters emblazoned proudly on the missiles, side-by-side with broad stars and stripes.

And he has only two words for what he feels. He's too stunned for profanities, he's too angry for reasoning.

"My God."

* * *

_un peu brisé,  
(a little bit broken,)_

There's a cut on Ivan's cheek. It's not wide, but thin and red and violent. It looks like if he moves his face too much, the frail scab would tear and it would bleed.

And he's smiling.

None of them doubt that when Alfred deigns to show up, he'll be sporting a similar expression and a matching adornment. And they're not wrong, because when the doors swing open once again they can all see the flashed look and the vicious smile. And they can all see the bruise decorating the corner of his left eye and temple. Someone suggests that the spot on his shirt collar is blood.

No words are exchanged between the two late countries, but the rest of the world still hears the unspoken conversation exchanged. They can feel the yearning power in Alfred. They can feel the restrained want in Ivan. They see the tantalising promise of terror swimming in their eyes.

* * *

_complètement fou  
(completely insane)_

It's no longer _them_ against each other.

For so long, the world had been accustomed to that stalemate stand-off. They find comfort in it - knowing that nothing has changed. They find it familiar, homely, because then it means it's status quo and nothing has tilted a precarious balance.

And now they wonder what it was that tipped that balance, now they find themselves in an unsettling situation. They watch as one treaty is signed, a single test is conducted, and two men shake hands. To the rest of the world, it's a symbol of peace. They see only the two most powerful countries of the world, finally lowering their weapons.

But the nations gathered around the single television screen in a Berlin meeting room see the barrels of two guns pointed straight at them all, and there is nowhere to dodge. They wanted to see the clash of electric blue eyes with scintillating violet ones, but were always met with sickeningly soft metallic blue and paralysingly sweet lilac. They longed for those days of naïvety when the balance of power was equal, and they could dismiss it. They now see only barren lands of shattered cities ahead of them.

It's now _them_ against the world.

And the world never was ready.

**Author's Note:**

> et c'est l'imperfection (and it's the imperfection)  
> de ce que nous sommes (of what we are)  
> qui a fait de moi (that has made of me)  
> ce que je suis aujourd'hui (what i am today)
> 
> un peu brisé, (a little bit broken,)  
> complètement fou (completely insane)
> 
> If it wasn't made clear, this is kind of set in the future - partially as a critic of what is happening today with the whole America and Russia and Trump thing, which the rest of the world is watching in worry. What would make this even more clear is that this is set in a world in which America and Russia have not been on terribly good terms even since the end of the Cold War.
> 
> That poem thing was something I wrote out of boredom/interest with some more style experiment (best way to spice up writing in my opinion), and which gave me inspiration for this. So - sorry if it isn't that good, but because it is something I wrote and something that inspired me and that I based this upon, I wanted to put it into here. Gave me also a good splitting of parts.


End file.
